


Little Bird

by Hopetohell



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cages, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26612017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: There are many works of art in this world. The cage is one of them, but so is the way he takes you apart.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	Little Bird

Lilacs for passion, peonies for romance, three-leaf clover for—you pause, trying to remember, to pull the answer from the haze that already threatens to settle over your mind. “Submission,” he murmurs, breath warm against the shell of your ear, voice drawing a line of fire directly to your core. “Clover for submission.”

He watches, indulgent, as you trace over the fine designs that decorate the cage, flowers and leaves that spell out a message. It’s a work of art, not that you’d expect anything less from him. It’s smaller than you expected as well, small enough that once you’re inside you find yourself wedged up against the bars, head bowed, cunt in perfect reach of those thick fingers. And it’ll bruise, undoubtedly, lines striped across your sides, your ass, everywhere the bars touch as you jerk and moan and fail to remain still. And how _delightful,_ he says, that he doesn’t have to lift a finger to correct you; the cage will do that for him. 

He’s an almost perfect counterpoint. While you strain naked against the bars, he stands completely clothed; his only concession to the nature of this situation are his bare feet, toes flexing gently as he circles your cage. Well, that and the erection that strains the front of his breeches. But he doesn’t even seem to notice, and if you didn’t know him well enough to mark the dark heat in his eyes you’d swear he was a man completely disconnected from his physical responses. But you _do_ know him, well enough to see how he clings to control by his fingernails, to mark how he fights against his baser instincts to give you this nonchalant exterior. And he marks your reactions as well, observes how his casual attitude and the exposed nature of your position have you wet though he hasn’t even touched you yet. 

But he’s impatient, isn’t he, shrugging off his coat and rolling his sleeves to the elbow. He disappears from view and you can’t even turn your head, are restricted to this view of the cage floor and your hands that clench and twist helplessly. So his hand is a surprise, warm fingers stroking so gently along your folds, their tips just barely dipping inside, the wet heat there pulling the quietest of gasps from him. And he can’t help it then, he has to dip his head down for a taste, his tongue pushed out to a hard point as he has to reach for you. And you feel that moan at your core, an almost soundless vibration that betrays him. 

He sighs, then, pulls himself back to what must be his original plan. Dips his fingertips inside again and keeps pressing until the roots of his fingers are flush with your entrance, until you quiver and burn and feel yourself trying to expel his hand because it’s too much, too fast. 

It’s perfect, the way the arrow of his hand flexes and twitches inside you, the way he can’t get a good angle like this and has to take his hand away from the front of his trousers to rub and circle at you until you’re shaking, until you cry out because it’s too much, too much, bruises digging deeper into your flesh as you press against the cage bars. And he is _merciless_ , isn't he, switching hands with a wet slide so that he can keep going, so that he can unspool you completely until you’re screaming with it. 

And when he opens the cage to tilt your chin up with fingers still slick and shining, you see the strain of it, his hair wild and eyes aflame, every fiber of his body tense with need. And when he takes your arms to lift you free, you can feel the fine tremors that run all through him, wildness seeping out from the cracks in his carefully constructed veneer. You feel that wildness, and in the depths of your exhaustion you feel that kernel of raw need begin to grow once more.


End file.
